BlackHawk in a Shitstorm
by KatieThomas'95
Summary: How does STRIKE Team: Delta cope with a mission gone south? In the only way a pair of badass assassins can.
1. Chapter 1

The Hawk was settled in his nest. Yes, Clint did find the bird jokes tedious but on this occasion it was appropriate. He was set up running surveillance from a SHIELD owned shipping container strategically placed several stories up above the meeting place. He was surrounded by equipment and weapons; he was currently monitoring the infrared cameras and thermal imaging satellite feed. Loaded and ready to go to his left was a sniper rifle, the small hatch that had the perfect angle on the meet site was already open. His bow and quiver of arrows were resting against the door, his contingency plan.

He tossed another peanut into the air and caught it in his mouth with all the elegance of a penguin at feeding time.

"Do you have to chew so loudly?" Natasha's exasperated voice reached him through his comms piece. "It's like listening to a starving dog crack bones for marrow." He grinned. And she knew he was grinning.

Natasha was on top of one of the shipping containers on the ground, hidden from view, a few hundred metres away on the other side of the port. She was not in the best of moods; she had been crouched in the same position for the best part of an hour. An hour felt like much longer when spent in the rain. Added to which the scientist they had been tasked with taking into protective custody after the meet was comfortably sat in a town car forty feet away, along with his body guard.

He released another nut into the air and caught it again. It crunched, again. "Barton, if you keep doing that I'll punch you in the brachial plexus so hard you won't be able to move your arm for a week."

"Only a week?" He chuckled, "You're going soft on me, Romanoff." He chucked another peanut into the air.

"And I'll systematically replace all the coffee in each of your safehouses with decaf."

The peanut fell to the floor.

He didn't need to see her face to know that she was smirking triumphantly. He reached for his coffee and took a long gulp. Risking his beloved caffeine for a few peanuts? Please, he wasn't a complete moron, no matter how often she told him so. Nor was he naïve enough to think that she wouldn't follow through on her threat. He had learned that the hard way very early on in their partnership.

Movement on the screens to his right drew his eye. "Heads up, we've got company."

"How many?"

"Three, the target and two henchmen I'd say." He squinted at the three heat signatures as they moved across the screen, one a pace ahead of the other two. The plan was simple. The scientist had arranged the meet under the pretence of selling his (highly) illegal research to a top operative of Hydra. Clint was to take out the Hydra man, Natasha would deal with the hired muscle (she was more than capable) and take the scientist into SHIELD custody. It was a win-win really, a dead Hydra lieutenant and a brilliant new scientist for SHIELD. Of course, optimism is never a good thing and a simple plan rarely works out simply.

True to form, it took less than twenty seconds for the shit to hit the fan.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at the scientist and his bodyguard as they left their car and walked over to the clearing between the shipping containers. Her instincts had her on edge. Apparently so did Clint's. "Nat, something feel off to you?" He asked.

"Yep. Hang tight and wait for my mark." She replied quietly. The bodyguard was too relaxed. Her hunch was confirmed when the bodyguard pulled a gun and shot the scientist in the head. His lifeless body dropped to the ground. She fired her weapon, releasing two bullets in quick succession. Both found their mark in the bodyguard's chest.

But he just stood there, smiling at her. The Hydra jackasses opened fire on her position but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the shipping container. She returned fire, killing one of them and hitting the other in the thigh. The bodyguard was still smiling, his skin glowed strangely. When the gunfire stopped, she heard two small clinks of metal on gravel as two bullets dropped to the ground. Her bullets, mangled and misshapen. Her bullets, which not three seconds ago had been in that man's chest.

"Tash, what the hell just happened? I don't have eyes on Dr Payne." Clint's voice was urgent in her ear.

"It's a set-up! The bodyguard is either inhuman or enhanced. Dr Payne is dead. Take-" She didn't have the chance to finish her sentence. The bodyguard fired at her. She flattened herself against the roof of the shipping container but not fast enough; the bullet grazed her abdomen and white hot pain followed. She gasped and grit her teeth, breathing heavily.

"Nat?!"

"Take out the target. Then get down here. I'll deal with the enhanced."

Apparently he didn't need to be told twice; a puff of red mist replace the target's skull as Natasha reached into her duffle for a pair of flashbangs. She ripped the pins out and tossed them at the enhanced. They wouldn't do any damage but they'd buy her a distraction.

Sure enough, as she leapt from the shipping container and vaulted through the air, her opponent was dazed and disoriented. A swift jab to the face and a crippling kick to the sternum had him sprawled on the ground. She almost allowed herself a smirk as he raised his hands in surrender. Then his eyes blazed with cold fire and she was thrown backwards. Her body cracked against the corner of the shipping container. The breath was driven from her as two (possibly three) of her ribs broke (she might have said shattered but Clint would accuse her of being a drama queen).

Her torso was ablaze as she hit the ground, her eyes swimming in and out of focus. She groaned and made to get up when a boot rammed itself into her ribs. There was no holding back the yell of pain as her chest exploded in agony, burning through every conscious thought. She was only aware that the enhanced had lifted her from the ground and had her in a stranglehold against the container wall when her feet dangled in the air.

She brought her hands to his, loosening the hold just enough that she could take in a mediocre quantity of air. She just had to hold out until Barton showed up. Take your fucking time, Clint. She hit her head back against the metal. Headshot, Clint, headshot, she was telling him, wherever he was. No sooner had she made the motion than an arrow sprouted between the enhanced's eyes. He dropped like a stone, taking her with him.

"Tasha! Tash?!" Clint's voice was strong and panicked in her ears, but she only had eyes for the glowing skin of the dead enhanced. That couldn't be good. Clint came to ground next to her. "Nat? Are you okay?" He demanded, eyes searching her body for injuries.

"No time," She gasped, throwing her arm over his shoulder. "Run!" She motioned vaguely towards the dead enhanced. They could both feel the heat radiating from the skin of the corpse.

"Oh shit."

"Cover!"

They were both running, a flat out sprint towards another group of shipping containers. They weren't fast enough. The explosion at their backs sent them ploughing through the gravel.

Clint's ears were ringing, but as he turned to Natasha, he could see that her face was white with pain. "Shit, Tash?!" He half-shouted, scrambling over to her. Her breathing was laboured but shallow.

"The car…" She ground out, each syllable more painful than the previous, "We have to get to the extraction point."

Said extraction point being a freight train headed for the border. She was right, they had to move now or their window of opportunity would close and things would get one hell of a lot worse. There was a full med kit on the train, they could deal with injuries there.

"Alright then, time to move." He replied, wrapping her arm over his should again and helping her up. She bit back a gasp as she made it upright and had to consciously stop her knees from buckling. Suck it up, Romanoff. You've made it through worse than this. Oh but she swore she could feel the bone edges grating against each other with every step.

"You drive." She hissed as they made it to the car. That's when Clint knew exactly how much pain she was in; she never let him drive. Ever. Except that one time in Panama… but that was while she was still working through the effects of a forced barbiturate dose. There was no missing the grimace on her face or the way she cradled her side as she lowered herself gingerly into the passenger seat.

"Glove box." He said quickly, putting the car into gear and pulling away. She nodded in appreciation but a strained groan left her as she leaned forward to retrieve the fentanyl lozenges. The lozenges were a welcome and more effective alternative to the syringes of morphine they used to use. A damn sight more expensive as well but that was Fury's problem, not theirs.

It was only a twenty minute drive to the extraction point but it felt much longer. Even with the fentanyl, she was in a significant amount of pain. Clint watched her knuckles go white at every bump in the road. It was not a well made road. At one particular pothole, she snapped. "Jesus, Clint, couldn't you fucking dodge a few of them?!"

He had to stop himself from biting back. "I'm doing my best but that's only worth so much on a road so poorly made that the Romans would have done a better job." He replied, only somewhat testily. "We're almost there." He pulled onto a dirt track and drew to a stop. Tash grabbed the blister-pack of fentanyl and levered herself out of the car whilst he grabbed the gas can out of the trunk and began dousing the vehicle interior with it.

She was already walking towards the train tracks as he tossed the lighter into the car. Job done, or at least half done. They'd walked away from worse shit storms in the past.


	2. Chapter 2

The car in flames and the subsequent explosion of the gas tank might have made a dramatic backdrop to their jog towards the train tracks had it been paired with a suitably epic soundtrack. As it was, Natasha's jog was more of a limp and the soundtrack was a steady stream of curses in a delightful range of languages.

They crouched just inside the treeline, within twenty metres of the tracks, listening to the train getting closer. Clint glanced across at Natasha with concern. Her face was set in a carefully controlled expression of concentration, automatically hiding her pain behind an indifferent mask. He did note the tension in her jaw though. He didn't say anything; for now they just needed to finish their extraction. The only thing that mattered was getting on to the train.

They'd chosen this section of track for extraction because it curved around the base of a hill, forcing the train to slow down. It also meant that if they boarded the eleventh carriage, they would be out of view of the driver.

The lead car went by, then the second, then the third. As the sixth carriage passed them, they ran in a diagonal to tracks, Natasha in front and him behind. "Seven… Eight... Nine…" He counted out the cars as they were overtaken by them. As the tenth rushed past and the eleventh came up, he grabbed the rail next to the open cargo door. "I'm up!" He shouted. Nat took a quick glance over her shoulder and jumped up to the rail at the front of the opening. An involuntary groan escaped her as she swung herself up into the car. He climbed in after her.

She lay flat and didn't bother moving other than to thump the floor with her fist, wrestling to get a control on her pain. He kicked the blister-pack over to her but she made no move to take them. He wasn't surprised; she would only take a dose sufficient to take the edge off, never enough to make her groggy.

He cracked open the crate that held their supplies. Grabbing the med-kit, he pulled out the scissors and cut away her jacket. "Ah shit." He muttered, getting to work cutting off her grey SHIELD t-shirt. The right side of her chest wasn't moving as she breathed and as the fabric of her shirt fell away he could see why; purple-red bruising was spreading across her ribs. He gently pressed his fingers against the bruising, feeling the slight give beneath the pressure. The vehemently hissed litany of curses she directed at him confirmed what his eyes and fingers were already telling him: at least two ribs were broken and had punctured her lung.

Air was filling the pleural space, slowly compressing her lung. He rifled through the med-kit for an empty syringe. "Pneumothorax." He said quickly, "I'll try aspirating first."

Nat just nodded and grit her teeth as he inserted the needle between her ribs and removed the plunger. He was rewarded by a quiet hiss of air escaping. "Honestly, Nat, what is this, amateur hour? Thought you'd be more careful knowing there was an inhuman involved." He said with a smirk. It was a cheap attempt at humour but it got the right reaction- a grimace-smile that promised retribution.

Her breathing was shallow and rapid and her face was ashen. After several minutes she whispered "It's getting worse. Looks like… you get… practice… your in-field trauma… management." She winced as she lifted her right arm and rested her hand behind her head.

"How good of you to provide the opportunity, Agent Romanoff." He replied dryly. Of course it had been too much to hope that aspirating would be sufficient. He set about removing the right items from the med-kit and snapping on a pair of latex gloves. It didn't take him long to lay everything out.

He let muscle memory set in as he cut through her bra, exposing the skin beneath her armpit. "You're buying me a new one." She hissed through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah I know" he muttered, passing her a bundle of wooden tongue depressors which she quickly clamped between her teeth. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the bra he had just ruined was a sports bra and not one of the lacy ones that were so extortionately expensive. Swabbing a large area of skin he looked up at her. Ready? He asked silently. She nodded, biting down on the tongue depressors.

He pressed an epi-pen-like device against her skin several times, punching lidocaine into the tissue. It would numb some of the pain but this procedure would still hurt like hell. Next he grabbed a scalpel and made a 2cm incision through the skin. He glanced up at her again; her face was impassive. Then again, the incision was child's play by comparison to what was coming next.

He took a couple of deep breaths, then swapped the scalpel for a pair of Kelly forceps clamps. "Please don't castrate me for this later." He muttered, only partly to himself. Then he began using the forceps to dig through the subcutaneous tissue. Almost immediately the muscles in Nat's arm bunched as she fought the fresh pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Apologies became a mantra for him.

Natasha squeezed her eyes tight shut as agony radiated across her torso. As if broken ribs weren't bad enough, now her partner was digging through skin and tissue like a collie digging for a bone. The pain intensified as he reached the muscle and continued digging. She slammed the heel of her fist against the floor, barely registering the increased frequency of his 'I'm sorry' mantra. She tried to breathe through it but by this point it felt like she was suffocating. She gasped, attempting to drag air into her remaining functional lung.

Finally she snapped. A weak, strangled yell tore from her throat and was muffled by the tongue depressors clamped between her teeth. White hot pain flared and she thumped the floor repeatedly, willing Clint to hurry up.

"Okay, I'm through." He said, his voice a little strained.

Well isn't that just fucking marvellous? She thought to herself. At least it no longer felt like someone was stabbing her with a chisel. Now they were only using a medium-sized flathead screwdriver. How considerate. Of course when he used another pair of forceps to insert the chest tube, she bit down on the tongue depressors so hard she thought her teeth might shatter.

Clint sutured the chest tube in place; a much louder hiss of escaping air greeted him. Thank God. If he had messed this up Nat would likely have rammed the forceps so far up his ass that Stark wouldn't be the only Avenger with shrapnel zeroing in on his heart. Even now she looked to be breathing a bit easier.

She spat out the tongue depressors and carefully allowed every tensed muscle in her body to go limp. Relief was evident on her face. After a few moments she forced out, "Barton… I'm going to remove… your balls… with a coffee grinder."

"Well you could, but you'd miss them almost as much as I would." He replied with a shit-eating grin.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then relented. "Fine. Just one ball… with a vegetable peeler. Deal?"

"Counter offer: How about you turn the peeler on whichever moron failed to mention we'd be taking on a self-destructing inhuman bomb?" He replied, applying a dressing to where a bullet had grazed her abdomen. When he glanced back at her face, she looked positively gleeful. He pitied the poor bastard who had so spectacularly messed up their intel. "You know, there is a small silver lining to the clouds of this shit-storm."

"And what's that?" Nat raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Well thanks to the pneumothorax, you can't fly for at least two months."

Her eyes narrowed again, warning him to get to the point before she started reconsidering her position on coffee grinders and his balls.

"And that means you won't be stuck spending your R&R in the Tower with Stark driving you crazy."

"I think my lung collapsing may just have saved Tony's life."


End file.
